


An Unmaking

by m_lachrymarum



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - College/University, And the Rest of the Gang is Here, Disappearances/Murder Mystery, Elias is his Thesis Advisor, Gaslighting, Haunted House (or is it?), Jon is a Master's Student, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prescription Drugs, The Fears Exist, University Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 06:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26348485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_lachrymarum/pseuds/m_lachrymarum
Summary: Jon accepts Dr. Bouchard's invitation to finish his thesis at Magnus College.This is his first mistake.A new opportunity for Jon slowly devolves into a waking nightmare, involving new friends and a string of disappearances.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, More to be added - Relationship
Comments: 28
Kudos: 70





	1. Arrange Your Face

“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.”

― **Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House**

Jon wants to live, in spite of himself. Everything wants to live.

And yet in so many slow and deliberate ways, he destroys himself.

But it is a long and languid death, comfortable in its small sparks of pleasure. The grasp of a hand, any hand. A murmur of praise. The warmth of the sun on his skin. In the recess of his mind, Jon remembers. But the memory is hazy, thick and syrupy and warped. Disjointed by a mind that wages war on itself.

To live is so hard. Like going home to a faded house and a bedroom that seems too small. What do you do when the walls are wrong? When the smell you associate with home becomes unfamiliar to you? You grasp tighter and it turns to ash in your hand. Do not come back to these memories. You no longer fit them.

Sleep helps. Things that force him into sleep help even more. He’d rather feel the blackness and reach for something that is no longer there than remember. He is so, so tired. Can’t anyone see how tired he is? But he keeps his miseries to himself, of course. Jon is always told that he can’t read a face, that he’s no good with social cues. But everyone else must be as well, for they can’t see through his weak facade. Either that, or they just don’t care. Jon is used to being ignored in that way. He is an actor whose lines are inconsequential to the plot. He will be dragged offstage at the end of Act One.

So he finds himself on a train. A train that is taking him to some sort of salvation, though his savior doesn’t know this yet. What do you do when you’ve burnt all your bridges? You board a train that will take you far away from their smoldering embers. You hope the next place will be better, even if it is not good. You take a hand, any hand.

Jon took the hand of Elias Bouchard.

A thesis. Jon is getting his masters degree because the only thing he can think to do after schooling is more schooling. He is quickly becoming a professional student. But he is insufferable. He takes criticism too hard and he’s quick to argue back. He is disorganized. He procrastinates. His thoughts and ideas are too muddled. He is too focused on the details. He is not focused enough. He’s often accused of burning the candle at both ends.

What was it that Georgie said, as she left him at the station? “Sometimes you just need to move on.”

It’s true. Trauma is a short-lived fuel. And when it empties,it just becomes another trauma in and of itself. But Jon is nothing if not stubborn.

Someone sends his scattered ideas to Dr. Bouchard. Jon suspects this was done as a joke. He’s heard the snickers and whispering behind his back as he stumbles late to another lecture, papers flying. Dr. Bouchard is well-known for his research into the esoteric and supernatural. He is the preeminent scholar on Jonah Magnus. Jon has read most of his work, and expects nothing but embarrassment to come of this. But he receives a letter and later a phone call, much to the surprise of his colleagues and advisors. Jon replays the conversation in his mind every night, skipping only to the pleasant sound of the man’s voice and ignoring his own stuttered replies.

_“Jonathan, you show so much promise. The theories you put forth are fascinating.”_

Jon has never “shown promise.” Jon has never been described as fascinating. He was, and still is, a deeply annoying child.

_“I’d like to help nurture these ideas of yours. I think we’d make an excellent team, don’t you? I’d like to invite you to study with me. I’m excited to have you on board.”_

Had he agreed to anything? He must have, for here he was on this train. One more second chance he doesn’t deserve. Dr. Bouchard will tire of him, that is for certain. Jon has always been a user in more ways than one. He doesn’t mean to be; he is not everyone’s cup of tea, he knows that. This is fine.

He pulls the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, reading it over with a feverish urgency. He is to be picked up and taken to his apartment conveniently located near the school and will meet with his mentor in the coming days. Dr. Bouchard will let him know what is expected of him; he seemed to instinctively know that Jon needed guidance, strict rules. One phone call and this man had seen into him like no one else. How much will he see when they meet in person? What will he know? The questions make Jon quake with anticipation. This was neither a good nor bad thing.

A smart new suit and a haircut had followed shortly after the phone call. He could afford neither, but he knew the importance of appearances. In his photos, Dr. Bouchard always looked immaculate. And so Jon hides his mess and tries to keep twitching fingers out of his hair.

The train shutters and bumps. The afternoon sunlight dims to something softer and more inviting. Jon feels his anxiety grow. It reaches fever-pitch as the train slows, pulling into a lonely station surrounded by trees on all sides. There is a very empty parking lot. _Was no one there to meet him?_

He realizes with a start that his fellow passengers have almost all left and jumps to his feet, letting out a shout as his head makes abrupt contact with the luggage rack above. The throb matches time with his already formed low-grade migraine. His noise alerts the train car attendant who hurries to his side.

“Are you alright, sir?” The phrase Jon hates most in the world. Unless he is openly bleeding or weeping, it should be assumed he is fine. Even then, in fact. 

“Yes, yes,” he ground out, clutching his head uselessly. “But if you could help me with my luggage it would be much appreciated.”

“Of course, sir!” The attendant retrieved the two bags from above with relative ease that Jon envied. He’d needed help from another passenger just to lift them up. Academia was not a muscular trade by default. It saddens him to know that all of his possessions are easily carted around by others and yet to him they are an unbearable weight.

The attendant is kind enough to help him all the way to the end of the platform. 

“D-Do you have anyone here to meet you, sir?” The man twitches nervously. Jon fails to see how this is any of his business. The attendant notices and hurries to continue. “It’s just- well, there’ve been a few incidents-”

“Sorry, sorry!” A panicked shout startles the both of them and Jon whips around to find a large man ambling towards them rather ungracefully. He is tall, round and sturdy in the way of a farmer, or what Jon imagines a farmer to be.

“A-Are you Mr. Sims?” The man is out of breath, hands braced on his knees. “Mr. Bouchard sent me to get you.” So this was his welcoming party.

“It’s Doctor Bouchard,” Jon found himself correcting the man, not unkindly. “And yes, I’m Mr. Sims.” The man breathed for a few more seconds, eyes lingering uncomfortably on Jon before noticing his stare and flushing furiously. 

“Of course, yes, I’m sorry,” He apologized again. Jon was not sure what he was apologizing for. He hurried forward to grab both of Jon’s bags from the attendant ( _again, so easily_ ) and gave him a smile. “If you’ll follow me, I’ve got the car right around the corner. You must be tired, was it a long journey?”

Jon hummed, not interested in feeding into the man’s need for small talk. It had only been a few hours’ ride and it wasn’t dark yet. The evening was humid and the hum of the night was just starting, a soothing balm to his rapidly firing nerves. The man walked rather quickly, but Jon wasn’t sure if it was because of a fast pace or naturally longer legs. He hurried to catch up. 

The car was a bulky old thing, unbecoming of someone that associates with Dr. Bouchard. The man noticed his disgruntled face. “It doesn’t look like much, but it gets the job done! I assure you it's quite safe.”  
  


“Alright.” Another smile from the man, and Jon does not return it even as he courteously opens the door for him. The inside is spacious and surprisingly tidy. The man hurries over to his own side and folds himself in. It does not look comfortable. He turns the key into the ignition and the car rumbles to life; a steady, reassuring hum. “Radio?”

“Yes,” he affirms. Maybe the music would stop the man from talking, and spare him from Jon’s awful manners. He fiddles with the dial, deciding on a jazz standard, tinny and soft from the speakers as the man smiles again at him. Jon decides the man smiles too much.

“I didn’t think I’d get here on time, to be honest,” The man starts to ramble, more for his own comfort than his passenger’s. Jon curses his luck. “My own fault, of course. Lucky I got here when I did, it isn’t safe to be out so late alone.”

Jon recalls the distant anxiety of the train attendant and wonders. The town seemed sleepy and quiet, not exactly a hotbed of crime. “I’m not sure what you mean. It isn’t even that dark, and _you_ were just alone, were you not?”

The man winces as he steers the car past the worn, solitary homes of the neighborhood. “Have you read any of the papers? Although, I’m not sure if news from here reaches the big city.” A nervous chuckle. “There’ve been a few disappearances. Students, mostly. Young people, like- like yourself.” He blushes again and Jon bristles.

“You can’t be that much older than me,” he bit out, turning in his seat to fix the man with a glare. “So maybe you should look after yourself and not worry about me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep! It’s just-” he looks over to him again, and Jon becomes acutely aware of their size difference. The man looked like he could crush him quite easily. “Never mind. It just doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

Jon’s entire life had been a vacillation between utmost care and utter recklessness. A wild, rambunctious child suddenly became a quiet, withdrawn teen who succumbed to vice and sin as a young adult. And now, back to careful, well-plotted steps. This last move, this chance with Dr. Bouchard- everything had to go perfectly. He couldn’t afford to fail. He needed to be vigilant. 

Jon’s heart plummeted as he realized his first misstep-getting into a car with a complete stranger. He didn’t even _question_ the man’s identity. Jon was never usually quick to trust. His pulse began to skyrocket as he realized his situation. The man had said he worked for Mr. Bouchard, but how was he to know that? The talks of disappearances, the _looks_ he kept giving him. Jon’s hand itched towards the door handle, as if ready to bolt.

“Who are you?” he blurted out. _What an excellent question! As if a murderer is likely to give you a straight answer_. His hands shook as they dug into the leather seats. The man’s eyes widened at the question and he turned red, sputtering.

“M-Martin! Blackwood. Martin Blackwood,” he said in a rush. “God, I’m sorry. Here I am going on about being ‘safe,’ and I don’t even give you my name. Stupid me.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh and Jon felt a bit more at ease. It could’ve been a fake name, for all he knew, but it seemed...soft. Like a name that inspired trust and dependability. Jon felt rather childish in his logic, but names felt very important to him. If he could put a name to something, he could dissect it, understand it, _know_ it. So he relaxed incrementally in his seat, attempting to lean back and focus on the music. But Martin wasn’t having that.

“I’m really sorry about the last minute change-up! But Mr...Dr. Bouchard assures me you’re welcome to stay as long as you need until it gets ironed out. It’s quite a big place, as you’ll see.” Martin turned onto a private, tree-lined road as Jon struggled to assign meaning to his words.

“Change-up?” He questioned. “I assure you I’ve no idea what you mean.” _What needs to be ‘ironed out’?_

Martin gives him a small, nervous glance. “O-Oh? Dr. Bouchard said someone reached out to you.” The trees became thicker, more claustrophobic as the environment morphed to fit the tightness in his chest.

“No one has reached out to me at all,” he bit out impatiently. “What’s going on?”

His answer loomed before them, an impressive brick mansion covered in ivy and sprawled on lush vegetation. Dimly-lit street lamps lined the driveway and a lone light in the lower window provided some sort of welcome. But the place didn’t feel like a home. It reminded Jon of a monument, a curated relic that should house a library or a museum, not a person. There was a presence to it, a certain hum of energy both electrifying and oppressive. It beckoned and repelled in equal measure.

“It’s quite an honor, really!” Martin babbled as he brought the car to a stop. “I would love to stay at Magnus Manor. I just tend the grounds and do some carpentry and errands for Mr. Bouchard.” He took the key out of the ignition and turned to face Jon with an earnest look. “Really, it’s no trouble. Apparently, they rented out the room that was supposed to be reserved for you and they don’t have any space left. Mr. Bouchard’s working to fix it, but he wanted to give you a proper space and not some...motel room. Had Rosie make up your room and everything!”

Jon’s head spun. He was nervous enough about meeting the man, now he would have to _live_ with him. Jon was accustomed to keeping a public face, but to be in a stranger’s home, to expose them to all his flaws and his _mess_ \- he will have squandered this chance before it even began. The thought left him light-headed. 

“Oh, you’ve gone _really_ pale,” Martin worried, brow furrowing in concern. “Do you- what can I do? Let’s get you inside, have a lie down-”

“ _No_ , no,” Jon bit out, attempting to stop the fussing in its tracks. He willed himself to calm down and take breaths. _Arrange your face. Don’t make a fool of yourself, even in front of this..gardener._ “I’ll be fine. Let’s just get inside. Is he-” he paused, taking another deep breath. “Is he in there?”

“No,” Martin replied, still looking concerned. “He got called away for an emergency board meeting. Hence, me.” A nervous smile. “He should be home later tonight, though!”

_Who are you to say no? Take what you can get. You always have, after all._

“Alright, yes,” He opened the car door before Martin could say anything else and the man hurried to do the same, popping the trunk to get at his luggage.

Jon stands before the house feeling bereft and unmoored, tiny and insignificant in the face of history. There is a light in the second floor window. Jon is sure it wasn’t there before.

“It sure is something, huh?” Martin muses from beside him, setting the suitcases down as he fumbled for the keys. “Let’s go inside, get you all warmed up.”

Jon thinks this is an odd thing to say, as the night is muggy and humid. It was then he realized he was shaking.

There is a porch swing to his right. It doesn’t seem like anything Dr. Bouchard would use. The front door, dark green with an impressive gold knocker, creaked open to an unusually friendly foyer bathed in a warm glow.

The smell of musty air that only comes from a building with a past. Dust filtered lazily in the haze of the entrance hall lamp as Jon stepped inside. Despite its outer appearance, the place enveloped him and seemed to say “ _You’re welcome here. You’re home.”_ It was a feeling Jon had never had at any of his own residences. It was not familiar, but he liked it all the same.

“I’ll just take these up to your room,” Martin muttered, squeezing in behind him. He gestured to a doorway on his right. “You can settle in here, if you like. I’ll get something made up for you in no time!”

“That’s really-” Martin had already made his way up the grand stairs, two at a time. “...unnecessary.” He finished anyway, wandering over to the doorway. It was a study.

A beautiful, enthralling study. Covered wall to wall with books and paintings and artifacts. There was a heavy, oak desk in front of the window and a smaller bureau on the left side of the room, as if for a secretary or an assistant. The wallpaper was a forest green and bordered with a design Jon couldn’t quite make out in the hazy lamplight. He slowly made his way forward almost reverently; his hand reached out to touch one of the books on the shelf- _The Seven Lamps of Architecture-_ before Martin’s hand landed on his arm, startling him out of his trance with a gasp. 

“ _Christ_ , don’t scare me like that,” he wheezed as he tried to get control of his breathing. Martin winced.

“Sorry, sorry,” he still didn’t let go of him, placing a light hand on his shoulder as he guided him to a plush velvet chair. “I just really think you should sit down. You didn’t look well out there.”

Jon bristled at being led like a child, but allowed it anyway. He didn’t want to anger the man; after all, he seemed to have some sort of relationship with Dr. Bouchard. “I assure you, I’m quite fine now.” The chair was luxuriously comfortable, and he relaxed in spite of himself.

A weight in his pocket reminded him that there was always something to relax him further. He palmed at the crushed pack of cigarettes and looked anxiously back at Martin, who was now fiddling with something across the room.

“May I smoke?” The question startles the man and the clink of glass is heard; Martin was pouring an amber liquid from a heavy crystal decanter. “O-Oh, of course. Just a moment,” Jon was fishing out a cigarette and putting it to his lips when he heard the crackling hiss of a match being lit and the sudden warmth of a flame. Martin was already by his side, holding the match and cupping the flame. It was smooth, practiced, and Jon knew he had once done this for someone else, probably many times. He leaned forward and inhaled.

Martin had large, callused hands and a constellation of freckles across his face. Jon wanted to count them. He imagined the hands that gripped him firmly on the shoulders instead digging into his skin. He wondered if those hands were capable of cruelty.

The moment passed as he exhaled the acrid smoke from his lungs. To think this used to be his only vice. Now the heady rush of tobacco seemed less of a habit and more of a necessity, virtuous in the face of his other sins. Speaking of, it seemed that Martin had provided him with a drink- more than a few fingers of what Jon guessed to be whiskey filled a crystal glass on the end table to his right.

“Scotch,” Martin provided, setting an ashtray next to his glass helpfully. “Dr. Bouchard insisted- wanted to give it to you himself, but.” A nervous hand ran through strawberry-blond curls. He looked not at Jon’s eyes but his lips. It was a hungry gaze, and Jon pointedly exhaled through his nose and the man looked away, blushing. “Rosie made some chicken a la king earlier, I’m just going to go and heat that up for you-”

“That’s quite unnecessary, please don’t trouble yourself on my account.” His stomach was starting to feel vaguely unsettled as the novelty of the situation began to set in. 

“Oh it’s no trouble at all!” Martin had the irritating quality of needing to be present and useful at all times. Jon had no doubt it would be just as irritating in the future should he stay here any longer than needed. 

“Please don’t, I’m not very hungry,” He took another drag from his cigarette; it always dulled the hunger. When Jon was lacking in funds, he always went for a pack over groceries. 

But Martin looked conflicted, hovering anxiously in the doorway. He gave another sweeping glance over his body and Jon felt oddly exposed. “I’m sorry, it’s just Mr. Bouchard said- “

“Fine! Fine,” he snapped. “If you insist.” _If Bouchard insists._ Martin gave him a bright grin and scurried off, leaving Jon to much-needed silence. He stubbed out the remainder of his cigarette in the ashtray and grabbed at the drink. The aroma filled his nose and mind with a pleasant buzz. Dr. Bouchard had once again read him like an open book. Had he done some sort of background check? Or perhaps he just instinctively knew, the way some people can hear a symphony in a single note or read a love song in a smile. The liquor burned rich and smooth and hot all the way to his stomach. Closing his eyes, he took another sip. Jon had never learned to savor.

When he opened his eyes, the light seemed different. Had it already gotten that dark? The glass was empty and Jon didn’t remember the pang of loss that usually accompanied his last sip. He turned his gaze over the room, so comfortable in its clutter of Victoriana. Everything was of quality, but used, well-loved. Curated by a careful and knowing hand. 

There was a portrait hanging near the desk. Strange that he didn’t notice it before, when it was so clearly the focal point of the room. It was of a man, approximately Jon’s age, in Georgian garb. He was pale-skinned and dark-haired, handsome. His eyes were a piercing, preternatural green and he smiled _(or smirked?)_ down at Jon. Did he know this man? Had he seen him before? No, impossible. Jon felt like a traveler kneeling at the shrine of a patron saint.

His reverie is broken by the appearance of Martin setting a steaming plate of food on a dining tray near his feet. “Here you are!”

“This is...a lot,” Martin had given him the portion of a man twice his size. It smelled delicious, and Jon didn’t want a single bite.

“It really isn’t,” Martin argued gently, generously refilling his glass of scotch. Now _that_ was appreciated. “I doubt there was anything edible on that train.”

He poked at the chicken under Martin’s watchful eyes. _He’s not going to leave until I take a bite._ So he did. It was delicious and flavorful and Jon wanted to spit it out like a cat with a hairball. He swallowed instead. 

Martin gave him an encouraging smile and sat in the chair across from him. _Great._ He seemed out of place, too awkward and ungainly in this elegant little temple of books. Like an intruder. Jon wanted to snap at him, force him out. He took another bite instead, and helped it down with a swig of scotch.

“Good, then?” Martin was clearly referring to the food, but Jon answered about the drink.

“Perfect.”

Martin made another pleased smile as he fiddled with a small brass telescope that Jon wanted to bat out of his hands. He managed to make a deafening amount of noise while Jon pushed his food around and drained his glass. He almost preferred the talking. 

He wanted to be left alone. People are incomprehensible, the need for companionship had always struck him as frivolous. But this was not his house, and Dr. Bouchard wanted him to have a drink and a meal, even if he gave no sign of showing up. Jon felt rather like he’d been stood up on a date, unwanted and ignored. The thought made him drop his fork with a clatter.

“I’d like to go to my room,” he announced abruptly. Martin jumped. “Just to- to rest, for a bit. Before he gets here.” The eyes of the main in the portrait bear down on him and he feels sweat pool at the back of his neck. Martin eyed his tray even as Jon pushed it back. 

“Are you sure?” The man rises, looking over him critically. “You’ve hardly eaten anything.”

Jon opened his mouth to give an acerbic reply before thinking better of it. Martin has reacted to each of his clipped responses and refusals with stubborn insistence. Perhaps the man required a different touch.

So he yawned, stumbling a bit as he rose from his seat. Martin hurried to steady him and Jon leaned into the hand at his back. He fluttered his eyelids as he put a hand to his mouth to stifle another yawn. Jon does not think himself a very attractive man, but he is well aware of his small, delicate frame and from the looks of it, Martin is too. He is not particularly subtle.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” he started, careful to make his voice low and tentative. “You’ve been so kind and I’ve been nothing but rude. The truth is, I really don’t feel well-”

Martin’s face softened instantly and Jon knew he had him. “Of course- say no more. Let’s get you to bed. Are you alright for the stairs?” Jon followed him slowly into the front hall.

“Y-Yes, I think so.” How else was he supposed to get to his room?

They made a slow go of it, Jon leaning more and more onto Martin as they made their way up the stairs. Martin kept muttering gentle praise as if Jon were accomplishing something incredibly difficult. If the man hadn’t said he was a gardener, Jon would have taken him for a nurse or caregiver of some sort. 

The hallways were lit in a low, muted light. They were covered in different oil paintings that Jon had a hard time making out; he would have to investigate further in the light of day. Each step felt heavier than the last- Jon’s excuse was rapidly turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy. The hallway melted away from him in a slow and steady drip until his vision tunneled. He no longer had to pretend he needed Martin’s assistance to get through the door.

“Just a small rest,” he whispered as Martin led him over to a bed, soft and yielding. He leaned back against the pillows but did not close his eyes or give into the sudden malaise. Was it the drink that did it? Jon wasn’t used to expensive liquor. “Will you wake me when he’s here?”

“Of course,” Martin assured him in a voice more like a coo. “Do you need-”

“Please.” It is not so much a request as it is a dismissal. Martin understood this, and let go of his arms reluctantly, hands still reaching out.

“I’ll be just downstairs if you need me,” Jon was no longer paying attention as the door closed. The room was warm, unbearably so, and he was dizzy. He dragged himself off the side of the bed. He felt like he was moving through molasses as he parted the curtains and painstakingly cracked open the window. The breeze, however warm, is a blessed relief as his vision started to clear.

It cleared enough for him to take in his surroundings. There was a mahogany night table with an elegant Tiffany lamp, currently the only source of light in the room. There’s a slim leather-bound volume on his table, its title etched in gold.

_Ghost Stories._ No author.

He knew this was no mere children’s book for light bedside reading- Dr. Bouchard had placed it there, and it was his alone. They were _his_ ghost stories.

The book called for him to open it, even as his stomach roiled in discontent. He was reminded of another book, another time- the ghost story that’s not even a story at all but a memory, a question, a drive.

_Why is everything in this room so red?_ Jon thought dizzily as he collapsed back onto the bed. _It’s like the walls are bleeding-_ I’m _bleeding-_

There are eyes on him. He looked up to see a portrait, head-on instead of in profile- a man’s wide, terrified eyes staring back at him. Why was he painted like that? What has he seen?

His hand inched towards the book unconsciously. Jon stopped it, and moved it toward something else. 

His small messenger bag sat against the side of the night table. Easy, convenient. He reached down, hand shaking as he dug through the small, interior pocket for that little bottle. A small pill in his hand. He swallowed it dry.

In ten minutes, he will be fine. He’ll be calm and quiet and docile and lost to the world. This is when Jon is tolerable, you see. When he’s asleep.

For now, he sits and watches the walls bleed.


	2. On Disappearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon takes in his new home and the rules that come with it.

“Let him be wise, or let me be blind; don't let me, she hoped concretely, don't let me know too surely what he thinks of me.”

 **―** **Shirley Jackson,** **The Haunting of Hill House**

  
  


That night Jon dreams.

He is not supposed to dream, not like this. It’s a picture-perfect clarity, the sky painted pink with evening and the trees silhouetted like statues against it. Jon feels a breeze whisper at his hair but nothing moves in time with it. And there is a silence. It is unnaturally and utterly silent. He feels no rush of blood in his veins, no thrum of his ever-present heartbeat, even his breath makes no sound. Jon has always been acutely aware of the sounds of his body; that is how anxiety works, of course. Jon should be anxious now, but he is not. He is bewitched.

He is standing at the train station where he met Martin. But Martin isn’t here. No one is here. He is standing on the other side of the tracks and he’s not sure how he got there without running across them, and Jon would never do that. A breeze again, that damned breeze that he can feel but can’t see. Is it a breeze at all? Or is it an exhalation against his neck? There is no presence behind him, Jon knows that. But spirits can linger wherever they wish.

He blinks, and there is a man standing across the platform. Who is he? Jon recognizes him, should know his face. Has seen his eyes, somewhere. The man is staring at him, eyes unblinking. How can a man stand so utterly still? Like he’s frozen in time, just a photograph or a-

Painting. Yes, this is the man from the study. The man who made sweat run down his neck with his imperious and knowing gaze. But his eyes are softer now though no less green. He raises a hand and curls his fingers back into his palm, a beckoning if Jon ever saw one. He wants Jon to cross the tracks.

_Yes._ The man answers without saying a word. He smiles, a smile so wide it is almost grotesque. How can he smile like that without showing any teeth? Jon doesn’t like that smile, not at all.

But he takes a step forward anyway. His foot hovers over the tracks.

And then the train comes; horn blaring, scalding his skin with its whipping wind and the almost impact of hot metal and bone. Jon wakes up with a yelp, eyes shooting open in horror as he gulps loudly for air.

He is fine, he is home and safe in bed. No, this is not his home. This is the home of Dr. Elias Bouchard who has graciously offered him a room and Jon has repaid him by sleeping soundly through the night, if the rays of sunlight filtering through the windows are any indication. 

_Goddamnit._ He takes a moment to come back to himself, to forget the man and the train and the eyes. The room he’s in is truly as red as it looked last night, though the walls are of course not bleeding. Just Jon’s fanciful imagination, likely brought on by the glittering gilded designs that adorned them. The bed is spacious but not overly so and it is four poster, a detail Jon had neglected to see in his drunken haze. The curtains are tied off and he is unsure if he will ever draw them closed. He’s too claustrophobic; it would be like drowning in a sea of red. 

And in place of the terrifying portrait, a mirror. His own face stared back, hair in disarray and eyes heavy with sleep. It was only a reflection after all. How far gone does one have to be to not recognize their own face? Drink and barbiturates will do that, he supposes. 

He is under covers that are heavy, warm and overbearing; they stick to skin slick with a cool sweat. Did he get under them last night? He doesn’t think so. Jon is more apt to kick off blankets and tangle himself in sheets than burrow into them. He may run cold, but he can’t stand to be warm when it’s dark. The dark’s not made for that.

The window is closed. Jon did _not_ close the window and he doubts he would have been able to in the shape he was in. Someone was in his room last night. Perhaps Martin, unable to wake him up when Dr. Bouchard arrived? The thought of being touched unknowingly, no matter how innocent, filled him with discomfort. _I’ll have to have a word with him regarding boundaries._

His body is stiff and unyielding as he tries to peel himself out of bed. He never had a chance to unpack his clothes so now he has few choices in unwrinkled and professional wear unless he happens upon an iron. Jon turns to face the window with an eye to opening it when he notices the book. 

_Ghost Stories._ A piece of paper has been inserted into its contents, inviting him to pull at it. It’s an addition he’s sure he didn’t see last night. The stationary is thick and heavy with import, and the top of it reads _From the Desk of Elias Bouchard._

Someone _was_ in here last night. Perhaps the doctor himself, unless he sent Martin to do his bidding. The thought that the man had seen him strewn across the bed messy and prone made him flush with embarrassment. 

_Jonathan,_

_I apologize for the lateness of the hour of my returning. It was my intention to greet you with dinner and a drink, but I was called away on urgent business. Did Martin do well in my stead? I would have woken you last night, but it seemed cruel to draw you from whatever deep slumber you happened to find._

_I am afraid I won’t be able to welcome you in the morning either; I have a scheduled meeting that is quite immovable. I will join you for dinner this evening for a proper introduction and to answer any questions you might have regarding your position and stay. My home is yours for the duration and you’re welcome to explore the grounds. I hope you’ll find them as fascinating as I do- it makes one’s work effortless in a place so steeped in history, don’t you agree?_

_I took the liberty of closing your window last night. Unfortunately, it isn’t safe to leave them open in these times. I’m sure you understand._

_I look forward to our meeting. I’ll be in my study at four if you’d like to stop in beforehand. I’m eager to discuss your work and any thoughts you may have for the upcoming semester._

_Yours,_

_Elias_

He imagines Dr. Bouchard standing over his bedside, gazing down at his disheveled form with distaste. Tucking him in, closing the window. Telling Martin they wouldn’t be having that drink after all as his charge is dead to the world. He comes back, tucks the letter in the book and with one last disdainful gaze he departs, closing the door behind him. How deeply and utterly embarrassing.

The letter sends his mind reeling. It’s perfectly polite and more than he deserves; such hospitality. _Effortless-_ now that’s a word that could never be applied to Jon’s work. Every letter is pulled from him like a rotting tooth, painful and unyielding. Sometimes he sits at his desk and grips his pencil so tight it breaks. He’s ruined many a typewriter in fits of passionate frustration. 

And yet he imagines himself still at that little desk in the study, writing feverishly and surrounded by aging texts. The sun is high then low in the sky and still he works and Dr. Bouchard looks on from under that portrait proud of the choice he made, the man he picked.

What a silly thought. As if Dr. Bouchard would watch him work. As if Jon could _ever_ work for hours at a time. _Stop your daydreaming._

Thankfully there is a bathroom attached to his room, though it does have a door leading out to the hallway. It’s just as luxurious as the rest of the house with a clawfoot tub and marble counters. There is a window looking out to the side of the house onto dense forest and wilder underbrush. It is not so manicured here. Oddly enough, there is latticework down the side of the brick wall directly under the window. _Nice to know I have an escape route,_ he mused, only half-serious.

He gives his face a splash of water attempting to liven it up. _Good enough._ When he turns back into his room to change he spies a clock on the wall helpfully informing of the hour. _10:30. Christ._ Did he really sleep over fourteen hours? He quickly changes into the most presentable and least-wrinkled outfit in his suitcase; a short-sleeve ivory button-up and brown trousers he cinches with a belt. He’s lost weight since the last time he wore them, but the mirror informs him that they’re still an acceptable fit. It is too warm for a blazer, but he could add that for dinner. Put his best foot forward with the doctor, of course. 

The door to the hallway creaks open and resounds loudly through the house. _Damn_. He hoped to make a less conspicuous entrance. He’s distracted from his worries by the sun reaching through the grand windows of the foyer and hitting the hallway with just the right slant of light.

The paintings of the night before are beautiful, rich and steeped in color. But they pale in comparison to the enormous centerpiece- a landscape. No, to call it a landscape was to do it a disservice. It was the _sky._ Blue and gray, vast and deep and horrifying. It swallows him whole. It is magnificent and Jon is not sure how to look away. _If_ he can look away. When did he move in front of it? When did his hand reach out to touch, just a breath away from the canvas?

He feels a tickle on the back of his neck. Like a skittering of too-slim legs, an insect, a _spider_ and he slaps at wildly, stumbling backwards and hitting the banister with a flail of his arms. He does not fall though the fixture makes a worrisome noise. Breathing heavily, he stares back at the painting.

Huh. It is not so big after all.

How long has he spent in this hallway, staring blankly ahead? The light looks like it has already changed, hitting the height of noon within a matter of seconds. But that couldn’t be right, he’d just left his room. _Go downstairs. Get some coffee. You need it._

His steps echo down the stairs and he follows the scent of bacon, eggs- it is nauseating but it is familiar. The house is so welcoming even in its strangeness; even more so in the light of day. Every door is open on his way and he passes through a sitting room and a formal dining room until he sees a smaller, more intimate kitchen, hot with cooking oil and the sizzle of sausages.

“Oh! Somebody’s awake, I see!” A cheerful, pink-cheeked woman stands over the stove and wipes her hands on her apron. She’s smiling like Jon’s mere presence delights her and he finds himself inexplicably returning it. There is something motherly, soft and humble about her that weakens his defenses at first glance. How would he know what a mother is, though? The last image he has of his own is a kiss on the cheek as she loads him on a train, safe from a city on the brink of destruction. Perhaps she made him breakfast like this, smiled at him, but he doesn’t remember.

“I’m Rosie, dear. I hope you’re hungry!” She sets a plate on a small table to her right, much less imposing than the grand dining area he had just walked through. The plate is filled with eggs, sausage, toast and to the right of it sits a glass of milk. _What am I, a child?_ Jon is not hungry, but he’ll try for this woman.

“Could I trouble you for some coffee?” he broaches hesitantly, unsure if he is overextending her kindness. She waves a hand and smiles easily. Jon likes her smile.

“No trouble at all, dear!” _Dear._ She doesn’t ask how he takes it, just pours a large amount of milk and sugar. Jon is used to taking it black, though that is more out of laziness than preference. A small indulgence won’t hurt.

He breaks the yolk of his egg, frowning as it oozes onto the plate in an unappetizing manner. He eats it anyway; he is not used to eating so close to waking, but finds it surprisingly satisfying. Rosie has the radio on, tuned to a warbling soprano. She hums as she washes the dishes. It seems he’s the last to eat. Unsurprising, given the hour.

There is movement out of the corner of his eyes. He sees a back door with a large window, its curtains pushed to the side. A deer is making its way across the woods and it pauses as if sensing his gaze. It makes brief, direct eye contact and Jon stops chewing as if his sounds make any difference from so far a distance. 

The woods behind it are a blanket of dense green almost blocking out the sun. It is strange, isn’t it, to have such a forest in a town like this? He's sure he saw houses on his way over so it couldn’t extend that far. But these woods are dark and fearful in a primal way, as if they stood outside of time and existed on a separate plane. There is something in these woods; if he could just follow that animal he would find his answers.

He has to stop himself from rising in his seat. “Is there a path in those woods?” he asks instead, trying to make the question as casual as possible. Rosie glances out her window above the sink. The deer is gone now.

“Oh yes, but I wouldn’t go down there alone,” She turns her gaze purposefully away, it is clear she isn’t comfortable with the subject. “Best to stay where we can see you!” She says this with a smile and Jon feels a small suffocation deep in his throat. He nods in agreement despite this.

He’s never been very good at listening.

* * *

  
  


He makes his way back to his room, studiously avoiding the sky in the hallway. This house was full of traps, both visual and otherwise. Rosie is still around the house (she’d urged him to eat more as he left, but one egg and toast had been deemed sufficient by his body), cleaning and puttering about. He is tempted to explore now but quells the urge. If Dr. Bouchard is instructing her to watch him, he does not want to alert her suspicions. Best to have a game plan about these sorts of things. He grabs a novel from his suitcase, some Agatha Christie nonsense he pages through when he needs to be alone with his thoughts. There’s no point in finding another mystery; if you've read one you’ve read them all. Regardless, he makes his way back down the stairs to the front door. He wants to sit in the porch swing. He does not know why he has such a childish urge, but he is going to fulfill it all the same.

The air is humid but aching with coolness as summer yields to fall. The swing doesn’t creak as he sits; it has seen regular use. Jon can’t imagine Dr. Bouchard sitting here. He reaches for his cigarettes and matches, lighting one and inhaling. He opens his novel. A smoke in one hand and a book in the other- a perfect summer day if there ever was one.

As if summoned by the sizzle of the match, Martin makes himself known, popping his head up from the rose bushes that line the porch.

Jon swears and almost burns himself as he fumbles with the cigarette. Martin hastily apologizes. “Sorry, sorry, are you okay?” He waves off the concern with a dismissive hand, looking up into the man’s face. There is a smear of dirt across his forehead, likely from his gloves which are caked in mud. He looks ridiculous. It makes him smile.

Martin smiles back, friendly as ever. “Are you feeling better? I fell asleep myself, Dr. Bouchard came home very late but I didn’t feel right leaving you alone-”

“Fine, fine,” He makes a vow to be nicer to the man, if only to get on his good side. Perhaps Martin can tell him more about the house, the strange happenings in the town. He’d feel more comfortable asking him, nonthreatening as he is. “Do you live nearby?” he broaches, knowing the man’s penchant for rambling. He’ll let him have it, just this once. 

“Oh yes- a hop, skip and a jump!” A little chuckle. Jon gives him a weak chuckle back. “Within walking distance really, but it was so late I wouldn’t hazard it. Have an apartment a few miles off the road.”

Jon does not consider a few miles “a hop, skip and a jump,” but he doesn’t say this. “Hm,” he responds instead. Martin needs no encouragement to continue. “Slept well, I hope?”

“Yes,” he lies, taking another drag. What was he to do, tell Martin about his strange dreams? Unthinkable. 

“The school’s not far from here, is it?” he asks, eager to get off the subject of himself. “I’d like to see it for myself before the semester starts. It’s a nice day for it.”

“Oh no,” Martin replies easily. It makes Jon prickle with anger. “I mean, it’s not too far. But you can’t walk there. I would drive you today, but Mr. Bouchard wanted some things done around the grounds that I’m rather behind on, to be honest.”

The suffocation in his throat grows. More dismissals, more being treated like a defenseless sod who doesn’t know his left from his right. How pitiful do they think he is? He isn’t going to stay a prisoner in his own home, no matter how short his stay. He doesn’t say any of this.

“Doctor Bouchard,” he corrects and Martin flushes. He opens the novel to a random page and blocks the man from his field of vision. The action is petty to be sure, but Jon is not above it.

Martin putters around for the next half-hour, still directly in front of Jon swaying in his chair. He can’t have _that_ much work to do in this little area, especially with so much ground to cover. When Jon realizes what he’s up to, he lowers the book and stares silently. He promised to be polite in speech only, after all. 

Martin looks up and opens his mouth. Nothing comes out, cowed as he is by Jon’s eyes. Jon swings back and forth, not saying a word. His lips tick up in an approximation of a smirk that Martin’s eyes fix on. 

_Such a nice breeze._ He keeps at it, swaying back and forth and blinking slowly, his eyes never wavering from their subject. Martin likes looking, doesn’t he?

The man swallows and moves on.

His view now unobstructed, he looks out over the driveway. Only Martin’s ugly car remains, a blight on the immaculate lawn. Rosie had told him not to take the path in the back of the woods but the driveway should be fine. After all, it led only to a road that must be more populated in the daytime. If he were up for a sweat he’d do so- perhaps another day. One where he’s not expected for dinner.

Will he always be expected for dinner? He hasn’t had a schedule since primary school, at least one he actually adhered to. This is going to be harder than he thought.

He spends the next hour or two drifting. Time meant nothing out here, only told through the whisper of a breeze through a branch and the movement of shadows on the lawn. He could’ve been there for days. It’s all the same.

* * *

He almost falls asleep, the gentle swaying rocking him to unconsciousness. He doesn’t want to do that in front of Martin, however, so as soon as he feels the jerk of his head he rises from his repose and makes his way inside.

The grandfather clock strikes as he enters, letting him know it is two. He’s missed lunch and he’s sure Rosie has left something out for him. He will not eat it. 

Instead he goes back to his room, taking about an hour or so to unpack his belongings. They look meager and shabby in a wardrobe clearly meant for items far grander. He doubts his stipend will cover anything new, especially when he moves into his apartment and has to pay for groceries himself. Best not to get used to this sort of luxury. It makes him think of bulking up a bit for the winter to tide himself over in the lean months. _You’re not a bear in hibernation, don’t be ridiculous._

He freshens up and finds himself sitting on the ledge of the tub, leg jittering as he stares out of the window. He imagines himself climbing down the latticework in the night, sneaking furtively into the woods. It would be dangerous, reckless. Exhilarating. Perhaps he would run, disappear into that dark expanse.

He distracts himself with these flights of fancy. He does not want to go back into his room and see that book sitting on the nightstand begging to be opened. He is not ready. So he smokes three cigarettes and puts them out on the side of the tub, a trail of black ash on clean ivory.

Jon wants to go down to the study, perhaps do the exploring that Martin so rudely interrupted last time. _Not rude,_ his mind corrects _. You were being nosy. You never know when to stop, do you?_

He leaves the window open to air out the stench of tobacco.

The light already seems to be fading, hitting the trees at a softer angle and filling the hallways with a romantic light. The painting isn’t so intense in this light, he notices. Still, he does not look closely. His footsteps seem quieter, even- muted and dreamy.

The study is how he found it yesterday, welcoming and warm. His eyes immediately find the man from his dreams and he walks forward, answering the summons from the night before. The portrait on the wall has a small golden nameplate, faded and worn. _Jonah Magnus._ This surprises him. He’s only ever seen Magnus in books, and the few portraits that exist show a man firmly in middle age. He found one photo, more prototype than anything, but the man in it is wizened and unrecognizable. It could have been anyone in their dotage.

Distracted, he doesn’t realize he is at the desk before he walks into it with a curse. There is a crumpled piece of paper on its edge, at odds with the otherwise neat contents. Jon unfolds it, finding a headline and photo. _‘MISSING,’_ it reads. 

The photo shows a handsome young man of average height and weight. Jon forgets his name as soon as he reads it. The date is only mid-August, mere weeks from the present. This must be one of the incidents Martin kept alluding to. He feels a sudden sympathy with this missing man- was anyone looking for him, truly? Or was he just another crumpled piece of paper on someone’s desk, cast aside and forgotten? What would it feel like to just disappear? _Perhaps he left on purpose_ , Jon muses. Perhaps disappearing was the only way to get noticed in this world. And even that notice wanes with time. The world moves on and you rot beneath it. 

“It’s a terrible business, isn’t it?” 

Jon jumps about a foot in the air, letting out an unmanly shriek as he whips around and stumbles back into the desk, jarring several papers off the side. He is about to windmill backwards and collapse onto the wood when a strong hand grabs at the small of his back, pulling him forward and laying another hand on Jon’s chest in a stabilizing motion. He heaves in a shaking breath, heart racing as he takes in the man in front of him.

This is his introduction to Elias Bouchard.

He wears an apologetic smile though his green eyes dance with amusement. He is a tall man, certainly taller than Jon with a lean but sturdy frame. The staid academic photos do not do the doctor justice- he is almost unnervingly handsome, blond hair neatly coiffed and graying at the temples. He smells of cedar and something else Jon can’t identify and he is standing so, _so_ close to him. The warmth of his hands makes his face flush. _This_ is the man who called him here? Who invited him into his home?

“My apologies- I thought you heard my entrance,” he smooths a hand over Jon’s lapel and steadies him in place. “Clearly not.” His voice is melodious and full of humor.

“Hi,” is the only thing that comes out of his mouth, awkward and embarrassed. This is not going how he planned. He cannot look away from the man’s eyes. 

“Hi,” Dr. Bouchard responds, smirking as he pulls his arms back. Jon can breathe now, though he can barely stand. “Please, sit.” He gestures to the same chair Martin guided him to the night before, and Jon walks on shaky legs, happy to collapse into the seat. Elias moves to pour him a drink, he is much more at ease in this room than Martin ever was. Every step he takes is fluid, graceful. He belongs here.

“I wished to be here last night to greet you, but I was unexpectedly called away,” The clinking of glass is soothing to Jon’s ears. “University business. Dreadfully boring, I assure you,” He chuckles. Jon returns it. “And by the time I returned it was already ten. You must have been exhausted by the trip, you were out like a light when I dropped in.” Jon’s face burns at the reminder but Dr. Bouchard pays it no mind, walking over and placing a glass in his hand like it belongs there, like he’s done this a thousand times. Jon smiles up at him, dazzled, and takes a sip.

“The-uh, the missing student-” he stutters out, mind still fixated on the topic. He is not easily deterred.

“Ah, yes,” Dr. Bouchard sits in the chair Martin occupied yesterday and gives the liquor in his glass a lazy swirl. “Dreadful. There've been several disappearances over the last few months. That being the most recent- about two weeks ago? A few young men, one young woman. The police and campus security have been looking into it, though there are no leads I know of. I would have warned you in advance if I wasn’t afraid of scaring you off.” He gives a rueful smile, apologetic.

“Oh, I’m not scared,” Jon says. He doesn’t want the man to think him easily frightened.

“Perhaps you should be,” The doctor gives him an appraising look. He shivers. And realizes he’s yet to introduce himself properly.

“Oh, I’m- I’m sorry, I’m Jonathan Sims,” he reaches a hand over to the man and tries to match his strong grip.

“I should hope so,” Dr. Bouchard raises an eyebrow. 

“I-I’m sorry, I must have lost track of time. I meant to change- I feel dreadfully under-dressed, to be honest. Very scattered. I’m not usually like this, really.” The trouble being he _is_ usually like this. 

“I assure you, you’re perfectly presentable,” Dr. Bouchard says as he waves a dismissive hand. _He has nice hands_ , Jon thinks. “And there’s no need to dress up on my account, this is your home as well as mine.” The man is immaculately dressed himself, so the sentiment does nothing to ease Jon’s embarrassment at his worn, less fashionable dress. “How was your trip? I do hope Martin was punctual. I was worried he’d leave you waiting at the station, and we can’t have that.”

“He was...fine. Yes, perfectly fine.” Dr. Bouchard gives another small laugh, taking a sip of his drink.

“Yes, that sounds like our Martin. But he does a serviceable job, and I’m glad he managed to fetch you without too many problems. You’ve found the accommodations to your liking?” He sounds sincere in his speech, as if he’s actually concerned about Jon’s well-being. It confuses him. “Rosie’s an excellent cook, you’ll have to let me know your preferences. Rosie loves a challenge.”

“I’ll eat anything, truly,” This is not true at all, though Jon is willing to try for the woman. He feels he’s getting railroaded, though in an incredibly polite manner. He had so many questions, and so few answers. _Focus, Sims._ “But- and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful, your home is lovely- but I thought I would be staying in campus accommodations? Martin said there was some sort of issue-”

It was Dr. Bouchard’s turn to look confused. “Yes, they were supposed to notify you of the change. I’m supposing by the look on your face they did not.” He rubbed a hand at his temple, looking tired and irritated. The action was casual and Jon felt oddly like a voyeur, seeing a side of the doctor he shouldn’t be privy to. “Damn. I’ll have to have some words with Nolan. Idiotic man.”

Jon hoped he wouldn’t; he didn’t want to make enemies before he even stepped foot on campus, no matter how indirectly. “Please don’t trouble yourself on my account. You’re home is lovely, of course, but I don’t want to burden you any further. You’ve already gone out on such a limb for me, I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Dr. Bouchard, taking me on like this-”

“Elias, please,” he says with sincerity. “Call me Elias. And it’s no trouble at all.” He pauses and gives Jon a look of consideration that makes him take another sip of his drink. “You don’t realize the effect you have on people, do you?” Jon chokes at this. “Your work,” he clarifies. “Your ideas have caused quite a stir here. The faculty is anxious to meet you.”

Jon’s heart plummeted. Stir? His rough ideas on the categorization of fear had caused nothing but jeers and laughter from his former colleagues. It was horribly discouraging, and Jon wishes he’d scrapped the idea ages ago. And now it seems it’s made the rounds here as well.

_So much for your second chance, Jon. Everyone here already knows what a disappointment you are._

“Don’t look so worried,” Elias is putting his glass down on the table. It is half full. “All good things, I assure you.” Jon’s glass is refilled. _Huh._ He doesn’t remember finishing it. 

“But I don’t want to talk shop just yet. We’ll save that for the main course.” Jon realizes that he can smell something savory and warm from the kitchen and his stomach grumbles in hunger. “Though, I have to ask. Did you happen to see a book on your nightstand?” His blood runs cold. 

The question is coy. Of course he saw the book. Elias’s note had been tucked into it, it was unavoidable. Would he be upset he hadn’t read it yet? How could he explain the terror he was struck with by those two little words; he was getting a degree in the study of the supernatural for Christ’s sake.

“Oh, y-yes,” he stutters out. “Was that for me?” The answer is obvious and they both know it.

“Have you taken a look?” Elias knowingly asks. Jon is frozen with fear and shame and the man gives an understanding nod. He doesn’t seem particularly upset. “Ah, I see. Whenever you’re ready, of course. It’s a bit of a misnomer, to be honest. Some of them aren’t ghost stories at all.”

Jon remains silent, ruminating on the words. Ghosts seem tame in comparison to the horrors his mind has conjured. And yet these seem to frighten him so. Elias continues.

“What would you say a ghost story is?”

_A story with a ghost in it._ The words are utterly juvenile, he knows this even as he thinks it. And yet he says them aloud anyway. Elias laughs and gives him an indulgent smile.

“Delightful. I hope you keep that sense of humor- you’ll need it.”

_How ominous._

“Have you any ghost stories of your own, Jonathan?” He is getting up, and Jon gets up with him. Something about his movements seems purposeful, designed to be followed. Like instructions made manifest. It is a careful dance that he leads Jon through masterfully.

“Yes,” he doesn’t elaborate, and Elias does not ask further. He’s read his work. It’s impossible not to see the fingerprints of his own trauma on every page. Jon tries to hide it, truly. But people don’t go into this field on a whim. He’s sure everyone else has stories of their own.

_What is Elias’s, I wonder?_ They exit the study, heading towards the dining room Jon passed earlier today. He notices the doors have all been shut. There is a hand on his back, warm and heavy with intent.

“Jon,” he blurts out. Elias turns to him with a quizzical stare, hand poised over a doorknob. “You- you can call me Jon.”

“Jon, then,” he smiles as he opens the door. The table is set, and dinner awaits.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, doctor!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. We're moving forward, slowly but surely. As always, comments appreciated.
> 
> Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a series- it is mostly written. It is horror and as such will be very dark at times, so please heed the tags. More tags and relationships will follow as the story moves on. Excited for this one- I'm in a dark, autumnal mood.


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